


The Guilt of Blood

by actizera (kitestringer)



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-03
Updated: 2004-10-03
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7542679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitestringer/pseuds/actizera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Beecher had been left behind in the Hole a long time ago. The batshit, moony-eyed Beecher who replaced him has now been abandoned in a hospital bed. Neither one of those guys had a chance of surviving this place.</p><p>This guy, though... Well, you might say he "does what he has to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guilt of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal for Secret Identities Challenge #2: Destruction.

His hands don't tremble at all as he clips his fingernails and watches them fall, one by one, into the toilet bowl, leaving gentle crimson ribbons in their wake. For a second, he sees himself as if he were an outside observer and can't help but be impressed. He's a man whose face betrays nothing, methodically destroying the evidence of a crime — if killing a Nazi shit like Metzger can even be considered a crime — disposing of tiny, biodegradable murder weapons in a place where no one's ever going to look.  
  
_Cool_ is what he is. Really fucking cool.  
  
He takes an internal step back and surveys the scene from a broader angle. Back in Em City again, but a different person than he was when he left. The guy standing so casually over the toilet now isn't the same guy Metzger took to the gym that day, and _he_ wasn't the same guy who walked into Oz wearing those dumb-shit glasses and that timid, sheeplike expression. It's more than just a refinement of personality, a honing of survival mechanisms. It's more fundamental than that. Once a man's reached the point where he can look someone in the eye and think "When I look away, you'll have taken your last breath," he's become someone new. The first Beecher had been left behind in the Hole a long time ago. The batshit, moony-eyed Beecher who replaced him has now been abandoned in a hospital bed. Neither one of those guys had a chance of surviving this place.  
  
_This_ guy, though... Well, you might say he "does what he has to."  
  
He flushes the toilet and watches the whole mess disappear in a whoosh of rust-tinted water. A couple of clippings still rest at the bottom of the bowl, so he hits the handle again, and then a few more times just for good measure. Outside the pod, no one is paying attention to him; the novelty of his return has apparently worn thin already. When he'd staggered back through the common area with his bloody hands stuffed inside the pockets of his sweatshirt, very few people had even bothered to look up from their card games.  
  
That's good; that's exactly what he wants: a comfortable blend of invisible and untouchable. Most of the time, you barely notice he's there. When you do, you remember he's fucked in the head and it's best not to mess with him. No sudden moves, no direct eye contact, and, for your own safety, please keep your hands, feet, and dick to yourself at all times.  
  
Now seems like it would be a good time to laugh, but he just can't seem to get there; in the mirror, he sees that all he's managed is a disturbing, toothy grimace. He wipes his mind clean of that entire line of thought and grabs some toilet paper, uses it as a barrier between his still-bloody hands and the faucet as he turns on the water and begins to wash the blood away.  
  
_(A man's blood, blood all over your hands, warm blood from a living person, dead now, lying in a pool of it, all alone.)_  
  
"I did the world a favor," he says, looking up to glare in defiance at his reflection. So annoying when one of those obsolete Beechers tries to make a comeback by moralizing at him. He hopes they won't make a habit of it.  
  
Because there's still so much more to do.  
  
A different person — yeah, that's _exactly_ what he is. This feeling of having gore embedded beneath his nails is an entirely new sensation, one that might disturb your average Harvard-educated lawyer but doesn't bother _this guy_ in the slightest. Still, he keeps scrubbing. The water is pink at first but gradually clears, as he scrubs first his fingers, then his wrists, then his forearms (Christ, how far up does it _go?_ ). The ends of his sleeves are dark with dampness now, and he can see spatters of blood there that he hadn't noticed before. He shifts his arm in the light; there are tiny specks scattered across the fabric as far up as his shoulder.  
  
_(Off. Get it OFF.)_  
  
It's important that he take it off, he thinks. What if there's a shakedown? What if someone comes to question him, once Metzger's body is found? He unzips his sweatshirt and yanks it off so that the entire thing is inside-out, throws it on the floor, and uses his cane to swat it under the bed.  
  
That's when he notices his pants.  
  
It's nothing anyone else would see, unless their face were inches away from his legs, but there they are: more red-turning-brown pinpoint specks.  
  
He's torn between relief that he's seeing them now and annoyance that he didn't notice them sooner. Did he think he could slash a man to death with his bare hands and _not_ make any kind of mess? All things considered, though, he did a pretty nice job, and he reflects on that with something approaching satisfaction as he begins to strip down to his boxers.  
  
Getting his pants off is something he hasn't had to deal with for a while, and it's no goddamn picnic. For one thing, his hands _are_ shaking now; he suspects that it's because he hasn't had anything to eat since breakfast. He's also unable to support all his weight on one leg for more than a second or two before the pain becomes too much to take, so he finally gives up and lets himself sink onto Keller's empty bunk. A waft of Keller-smelling air slaps him full in the face, and with it comes images tossed across the surface of his mind, each with its own distinctive soundtrack.  
  
Keller lying on his bed, watching him with the calculating, emotionally vacant gaze of a sociopath. _Dude was in a fuckin' body cast, yo! Oh, he's gotta have painkillers..._ Breathing the sweat-and-mildew smell of the gym, locked in a tangle of hard limbs, his face pressed against Keller's leg, and then pain that's impossible in its intensity. _Sieg heil, baby! Sieg fuckin' heil!_ Strong arms holding him, a voice of such smooth honesty telling him he isn't alone. _No, no, you're not..._  
  
As much as he'd love to forget that a former version of himself had ever been such easy prey, it's helpful to have that steady baseline of cold rage to fuel him. So he takes a deep breath and lets the memories come. No one can do anything else to hurt _that_ Beecher, anyway; he's gone, never to return. Getting rid of him was like a mercy killing.  
  
He continues to think of Keller and allows himself the pleasure of mapping out the man's future. Cowering in protective custody for the time being, no doubt — but he'll only be able to take that for so long. Someone like Keller needs to feed off the desires and misery of others, so he'll come back sooner or later. When he does, Beecher will be ready.  
  
"Count!"  
  
He's startled by the amount of time that must have passed since he first sat on Keller's bed, allowing himself to become immersed in sense memory and revenge. And there his blood-spattered pants are, still hanging off his atrophied legs. No time to take them off now; everyone's lining up outside, and he can already hear Mineo calling out the names. It's just going to have to wait. He concentrates on getting to his feet, gives the task his undivided attention and diverts any stray threads of thought away from the parts of Corrections Officer Karl Metzger embedded in his clothing.  
  
"It just doesn't matter," he says out loud. He knows he'll never be caught or even suspected of an act so heinous as slicing a prison employee to bloody ribbons. No one will ever know.  
  
_(You will. Murderer. Those bloodstains are permanent. They'll cover you for the rest of your life.)_  
  
That weak, simpering voice from a former life just keeps getting easier and easier to ignore.


End file.
